Rachel Caine - Chicks Kick Butt

When I was growing up, I used to wonder why girls never got the cool stories. You know what I meanthe tales with knights fighting for right, with detectives prowling the mean streets to solve crimes, and the gritty stories about growing up on the wrong side of the tracks.

Instead, the books people thought I should read were about ballerinas. About good girls who did what they were told. About women who rarely had adventures, and when they did, rarely saved themselves, or anybody else.

I decided I didnt want to be the princess languishing in the towerI wanted to be the knight battling to save her. So I grabbed all the adventure stories I could, and never looked back.

Im particularly proud to be included in this collection of stories featuring powerful women, women who arent afraid to kick a little buttor a lot of itwhen the situation calls for it. Im also honored to be in the company of these fantastic storytellers, who kick some stereotyping butt of their own.

Im proud to be a chicknever more than now.

Because chicks are awesome.

We were enjoying a rare day that did not include doom and apocalypse, and wonder of wonders, it was one of those balmy, beautiful early-summer days that reminded me why I lived in Florida.

It had been Davids idea to do a beach picnic, which, given the lovely, mild weather, was a fantastic idea, but it had been mine to take a drive. A nice long one, on winding roads, for the sheer pleasure of putting tires to asphalt and seeing the world. So we had compromised on a long drive followed by a beach picnic, which was a perfect thing to do on such a lovely day.

Me, I loved to get behind the wheel even more than the prospect of the beach itself. I especially loved to drive really good cars, and this one, a Viper, was right up there in my ranking of awesome rides. Not as sweet as my long-lost Mustang Mona, whod been a casualty of life in the Weather Warden ranks, but still: nice, and powerful.

David had never said one way or another whether he liked cars, but I suspected he did. Although not much impresses a Djinn. This is an unalterable fact of the world: Djinnor genieshave been around since the dawn of time, although some are certainly newer than others, and one thing they all share is a sense of historical perspective. By the time you get to your first few hundred years, much less few thousand, I suspect, the been there, done that feeling is overwhelming.

Which is why it seemed so unusual to hear my Djinn lover David let out a low whistle as I powered through a turn, and say, Thats something you dont see every day.

I peeled my attention back from the curve and looked where he was looking. Just off the road, with the backdrop of the wetlands, was a mob of vehicles and people, and massive industrial video camerashigh-definition ones, I assumed. Everyone looked ridiculously casual in dress, and highly professional in what he or she was doing.

Commercial shoot, I said. It wasnt that astonishing, in this part of the world. Everybody loved the colors and lifestyle here, and there were probably more still and video cameras clicking away here than anywhere else in the country, except Hollywood. And maybe New York City. Whats so special

And then I saw it.

It was a silvery vision of a car, elegant as something designed by a classical sculptor. Michelangelo, maybe, if hed worked in metal and sheer engine power. I instinctively took my foot off the gas, staring, because in all my extensive years of car fetishizing, Id never actually seen anything that cool with my own eyes.

I pulled the Viper over to the side of the road, barely noticing the crunch of tires on gravel, and stared. My mouth was probably hanging open, too. Honestly, David was rightyou just did not see that every day. Or, in fact, any day, unless you worked at an Italian car manufacturer, or had $1.7 million to throw around on a set of wheels. That, I said, is a freaking Bugatti Veyron. In the Everglades. It wasnt the fastest car in the worldmaybe number two?but it was, to my mind, the most elegantly designed. And, not coincidentally, the most expensive.

David let out a little snort of laughter. I wasnt talking about the car, he said. Well, of course he wasnt, but I was still adjusting to the fact that there was a Bugatti Veyron sitting there, not twenty feet away from me. A couple of staffers for the shoot were polishing it with soft cloths, not that it needed the help to look its best. I blinked and tried to see what else was in the picture.

Ah. He was talking about the girl. The one in the bikini.

The one in the diamond bikini. Not a bikini with diamonds, not a blinged-out piece of spandex an actual bikini, made of diamonds. Now that Id noticed her, it was hard to see how Id missed her in the first placethe glitter of all those facets was blinding. The girl wearing the thing was getting herself powderedlast-minute primping, just like the carand she looked almost as sleek and expensive as what she was wearing, and what her backdrop would be. I presumed she was a world-class model, or she wouldnt be here acting as the prop for all that loot. You didnt go cheap on the talent in a thing like this.

I blinked as a cloud blotted out the sun. No, not a cloud a shadow, and then a body, big enough to present a solid flesh barrier to me catching any more glimpses of car, girl, or diamonds. He was, unmistakably, security. I could cleverly discern this by reading the giant letters in white on his black T-shirt, which read SECURITY , but even had he been unlabeled, there would really have been no mistaking him for anything else. He was professional muscle; whether he took it to bodyguarding a star, bouncing a club, or donning an overdone belt as a pro wrestler, hed made a career out of intimidation.

Hi, I said brightly. He scowled down at me from way, way up high. Tall, not only broadly built. Just wanted to see what was going on.

Nothing, maam, he said. Move on, please.

Im not in the way. I had no real reason not to immediately put the Viper in gear and drive on, but I didnt like being scowled at. Or ordered around. Thats a Bugatti Veyron, right?

No idea. Move on.

Lookwhats your name?

Steve.

Steve, I promise, Im just looking. Give me a second and Ill go.

Instead, Steve took a step back and waved a hand, and from somewhere behind me, two uniformed Florida state troopers sauntered over, one on my side of the car, one on Davids. The saunter was deceptive, because I didnt for a moment believe they were being relaxed about it. Miss, said the one who bent over on my side of the window. He had a thick Southern accent, a little too Southern for Florida. I was guessing he was a Georgia transplant. You need to move along now, unless youve got a pass.

David reached into the glove box and brought out something in an envelope, which he handed over without a word to the officer on his side of the car. The trooper unfolded the paper, read it, and said to his partner, Theyve got a pass, Joe.

They do? Let me see that!

The two passed the paper back and forth for a while, then huddled with the security guard, who came back and leaned in Davids window this time. David was noticeably not bothered or intimidated; he even looked amused, from the light glittering in his brown-bronze eyes. (He was trying to keep his Djinn side from showing, at least. Thankfully.)

Whered you get this? Mr. Security demanded, flourishing the paper.

David jerked his chin at the model. From her, he said. Shes my sister.

Your what ? As if no supermodel in the world had siblings, or parents, or any kind of family. Well, they did often look lab-grown, that was a true fact.